


strike the match now (we're a perfect match)

by AwaitTheMorrow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Communication Failure, Companionable Snark, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Insecurity, Living Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Social Anxiety, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwaitTheMorrow/pseuds/AwaitTheMorrow
Summary: Stiles and Derek have a tentative, mutually-beneficial sexual arrangement of which it's survival depends on never speaking about it or defining it whatsoever. Or so Stiles thinks, but it's probably too late to ask.It's fine, Derek isn't staying in Washington forever anyway, so it's not like anything is going to come of it.It's fine, really.





	strike the match now (we're a perfect match)

**Author's Note:**

> for candybarrnerd. thank you for the prompt love, i hope this is somewhat okay. i tried to incorporate all of your elements in one. merry christmas xo

Overcome with lethargy, Stiles slumps against the firm cushions of the sofa, melting into the soft tunes of the radio. He dangles an empty bottle of beer with his thumb and forefinger and is still tipsy enough that he can’t remember why he’s still holding it. Weird. Beer is so gross. Like fizzy salt water. Like fermented cola. He lifts his heavy head up enough to glance around the room, seeking Derek who is sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop under the dim glow of the overhead lights.

It’s late, closing in to two o’clock in the morning, but he’s not ready for today to end and tomorrow to start, so he’s calculating his chances on convincing the older man of making him a coffee at this hour. He thinks better of it though when he sees Derek smothering a yawn into his fist and rubbing a hand down his face, thinks of telling him to go to bed instead. His own bed or Stiles’, it doesn’t really matter which.

Derek came to Washington three months ago when he was offered a contract create a comprehensive historical record of a local, centuries-old werewolf pack. With the advent of digital transcripts and the ever-destructive nature of the supernatural world, turns out that folks all over the world were looking for ways to make the historical memorandums of their packs a little more enduring. Apparently Derek had the passion and enough business sense to capitalize on a market desperate for a little less mortality.

So the wolf had come to Washington for the indefinite duration of his contract and had gotten in touch with Stiles, who had offered him a place to stay before he came up in his small, two-bedroom apartment.

It wasn’t much, Stiles thought as he roved his eyes over the peeling wall-paper and the perpetually scratched windows, but it was enough. So the heating didn’t work sometimes and the floors creaked like old bones, it was secure. Mostly.

He places the beer bottle on the coffee table and stands. It’s probably bordering late enough that if he doesn’t go to bed now he’ll catch his second wind and won’t sleep at all that night. They have a lot to do tomorrow so he probably should get some rest in.

He makes his way down the thin hallway with a not-quite-sober hand trailing along the wall keeping him steady and strips himself of his shirt, shoes and jeans once he reaches Derek’s make-shift bedroom, not particularly caring where his things land. This used to be Stiles spare room where he had dumped all of his unpacked boxes on top of and around the double-bed the room already had. That changed when Derek came. He didn’t - doesn’t - know how long Derek will be staying, but he figures that after all the murder accusations and the whole grave desecration of his sister thing, the very least he could do was offer a bed instead of his ratty couch.

The beer is making him pleasantly warm and he turns his attention to the window, takes in the cloudless night, the starry sky and the proud half-moon before remembering retrieve his phone from his jeans pocket and placing in onto the bedside table.

The bed is still unmade from this morning, covers kicked down to the bottom. Stiles sleeps in this bed a lot. As he stretches himself along the far side of the mattress and drags the covers back up over his body he hears the sharp footsteps of Dereks’ stride down the hall.

He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep, hears the bedroom door shut seconds later, hears the sound of Derek shuffling around and removing his own clothes. Hears the rustle of covers being lifted, feels the mattress dip behind him.

In this grey area of intimacy Stiles counts backwards from twenty and wills his heartbeat to slow down and nestles further into the pillow conforming to his head. It’s quiet and oh so early and he knows that the sun will rise through those stupid windows in a couple of hours. Fatigue is already weighing his eyelids down and exhaustion finally blanketing his body.

From behind him Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ lower stomach, pushes a leg between both of his and presses his nose to the junction where his neck meets his shoulder. When Derek breathes through his nose it warms his skin and his chest hair tickles the skin on Stiles back. It feels nice, like this. When he knows the man has fallen asleep he brings his hand to cover the one Derek has splayed on his stomach and just holds it, comforted by the press of Dereks’ knuckles under his. He falls asleep to the warmth and quiet and the sandmans' grains.

 

\--

 

Stiles isn’t really sure how to label whatever it is that he and Derek are. They’re not frenemies, they’re not fuckbuddies and they’re sure as hell not boyfriends. Well, he’s pretty sure. They have a lot of enthusiastic sex and they hold hands sometimes when they’re out in public but it’s not like they ever sat down and talked about being exclusive. Stiles doesn’t even know how long Derek will be staying in Washington. It could be a few more weeks or a few more months, there was no real timeline, so it wasn’t really his fault for not asking for labels, he was just enjoying this thing they had while they had it.

It had started one seemingly innocuous night whist Stiles and Derek were sitting side by side on the couch watching late night TV. Well, Stiles had been trying to write a paper that had been haunting him for the better part of three weeks with the TV on as background noise before a steamy scene on the screen had distracted him. He’d looked up to see the beginnings of a heavily muscled man getting fingered and then pounded within an inch of his life by another man in what looked like some softcore porn disguised as an artsy indie flick.

The sounds of skin slapping on skin and breathy moans along with some progressive front-on male nudity had apparently made both Derek and Stiles hot and bothered because one minute their sides were pressed together and the next Stiles was being pressed into the cushions of the couch, kissing Derek Hale.

So they made out a lot and had sex often and ran errands together. So what? They lived together - temporarily - it didn’t make them together together. Stiles was okay with that. The revel of their warm bodies intertwined and skin pressed together, the sound of uncontrolled breath and pleased hums was the most life-affirming moments they’d ever had together.

What was significantly less life-affirming was having the covers ripped unceremoniously away from his half naked body and being shook awake the following morning.

“Get up,” Derek says from somewhere behind him, moving swiftly around the room.

Stiles licks his slack lips, his mind velvety and deliciously unaware. “...You get up.”

He hears Derek huff impatiently. “Now, Stiles - up. I’m making coffee and you said you wanted to shower before we leave.”

Oh yeah. Damn it. He barely resists the urge to groan childishly into the pillow and wonders, half asleep, why he agreed to any of this at all. The pack that Derek was commissioned for, the Townsends, were throwing a fortieth birthday party for their alpha matriarch, a severe looking woman called Gerie.

When she first met and introduced herself to Stiles he had made the mistake of asking if her name was like the Spice Girl or the trashy talk show host. She’d frowned at his attempt at light-heartedness and didn’t answer, walking away to speak to someone else. Needless to say, she didn’t immediately warm up to Stiles. He was lucky he found out early that she wasn’t the joking type on most subjects because he had plenty of geriatric jokes up his sleeve. Get it? He’d nudged Derek, who tried to pretend he didn’t hear him.

“Do I have to get up?” He grumbles into the pillow, rubbing his cheek into the warm spot his head had left. “This is a democracy, we should take a vote.”

“I vote you get your ass out of bed before I drag you out of it.”

Stiles turns over and blinks blearily into the morning light, smirking up at Derek who is standing beside the bed in sweatpants, hair wet and freshly showered. He raises up his arms and wriggles his fingers towards Derek. “Oh yes, I like it rough.”

Derek just rolls his eyes and grabs Stiles outstretched hands, hoisting him upwards until he is standing. He wraps his arms around the man's shoulders and presses a sleepy kiss to his neck. Derek presses a kiss to his hair, tells him to get his ass into gear and leaves his morning wood high and dry. Oh well.

Stiles rubs the sleep from his eyes and stretches slumber heavy limbs. By the time all his joints have cracked loudly in protest, Derek is already out of the room and, by the sound of it, in the kitchen with the radio playing.

The autumn lows make the floors cold under his bare feet it makes his toes curl and the hair on his body arms stand up as he pads along to the bathroom. There is only one clean towel left under the sink luckily, and Stiles relieves himself in the toilet before he hops in, twisting the temperature dials. The water pressure is horrendous in his shower, like a rapid stream alternating with a garden hose, but there's plenty of hot water.

Despite Dereks’ urgency he takes his sweet time washing his hair, soaping his body and then jacking off. It makes him feel slightly devious and lot turned on when he comes against the tiles with a strangled sigh, knowing Derek can hear him. His walls are so thin his eighty year old neighbour can probably hear him but that's not the point.

Once he’s out and towel dried he sets to brushing his teeth, draws a lopsided frowning face in the steam of the bathroom mirror trying to dispel some of the nervousness that has begun creeping up on him. It doesn’t seem to matter what he’s been through or how brave he has had to be in the past, he never truly can be over the jitters a large unfamiliar crowd gives him. He is familiar with the furious beat of butterflies in his torso though so he tries to ignore it best by going about his routine, dressing smart casual in a button down shirt and clean jeans,tries to style his hair into something neat.

Derek is absently chewing what looks like plain buttered toast when Stiles makes his way into the kitchen. The older man seems to flipping through the an old treaty he is working through the transcription of, reading it for what has to be the hundredth time.

“Morning,” Stiles greets, a lot more awake and appreciative of the sight before him.

Derek's skin is hugged in his trademark henley and dark jeans. He takes a moment to finish the line he's reading before looking up at Stiles, walks away from the dining table and gestures for Stiles to follow him into the small kitchen. There's a large cup of coffee and a warm fresh-out-of-the-microwave danish on a plate waiting for him.

The coffee cup is nearly as big as Stiles head, but it’s his favorite one because it's his Mets mug and he’s had it forever. Derek, who is drinking from his own coffee mug is looking at him in a way that is almost shy, void of the usual assertiveness. This is like, thoughtful, Stiles thinks. It's usually only his dad and the McCalls who feed and water him.

Stiles purses his lips so they don’t turn upwards instead, freeing his right arm to wrap around Derek's shoulders. He leans in kisses him on the cheek, coarse stubble pressing against his lips. He's about to pull away when Derek uses two fingers to tilt Stiles' jaw to meet his lips, kissing chastely once, twice, before he's allowed to disentangle himself.

“You look really nice,” Derek says, kissing him once more and squeezing his hip.

Stiles scoffs into his mug and takes a gulp before speaking. “You don’t look too horrible, I suppose. Are we planning to stay long?”

Derek empties the remainder of his coffee into the sink before placing the cup in the open dishwasher. “Couple of hours. We just have to make an appearance, I’m not really interested in anything beyond that.”

The knot in Stiles stomach eases a fraction. “We have to stop by the grocery store on the way back.”

“Weren’t we there yesterday?”

“Yeah but we forget the laundry powder and we’re out of clean towels.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Derek groans. He hates the weekend crowds. “Fine, but I’m driving.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and drinks the last mouthful of his coffee, hoping the warm liquid would adequately blanket the tangled ball of nerves in his stomach. Whilst Derek grabs the keys and retrieves the wrapped present from the hall stand Stiles tries to busy himself with turning on the dishwasher and closing the kitchen window shut.

Once they’re off Stiles makes multiple amendments to the Camaro’s radio station and heat settings, never quite getting a consistent balance between too cold and too stifling. Derek smacks his wrist if he tries to change the station from a song he likes but apart from that he doesn’t seem to mind.

The Townsends live about a half hours drive from Stiles’ apartment in a nice suburban part of town, a typical middle-class area. Nice schools, nice clean parks. The pack is hosting the birthday area in the backyard of their main house, it’s a lunchtime barbeque. At Stiles’ feet there are a few six-packs of beer, a nice bottle of wine and a family packet of Doritos and the birthday present.

He nibbles on his fingernails, jiggles his knees, wonders if he’s violating any sort of secret, invisible werewolf etiquette by not declaring to his own alpha that he is visiting the pack house of another alpha. Before they met on neutral ground when he and Derek bumped into them on a hiking trail. Should he not like, formally submit his whereabouts? He and Derek aren’t technically pack members, more like pack members by proxy, does that blur some kind of line? Will she like the gift?

Not that he actually cares about this pack and their opinions but he doesn’t want to make things more difficult for Derek. He doesn’t want the pack to have a hard time working with Derek because they can’t stop remembering the shitty gift he and his anxious pseudo-packmate sexbuddy brought to their esteemed alpha.

“Stop fidgeting,” Derek grumbles, eyeing Stiles ever-moving legs.

“Stop _sniffing_ so loudly,” Stiles shoots back.

“Werewolf,” Derek retorts.

“ _Annoying_.”

“Deal with it.”

Stiles taps out his frustration on the plastic of the arm rest, half-chewed nails clicking loudly on contact. “ _You_ deal with it.”

“I will,” Derek says nonchalantly, briefly looking out his window before changing lanes. “I have more experience in self control than you.”

Stiles snorts loudly as they turn onto the main street, passing signs for local restaurants and beauty salons. Stiles has an itch to turn back now. “You? Self control?” he asks incredulously, turning in his seat to cast Derek a highly dubious stare, “Is that what that was, when you had so much self control and you didn’t do your own laundry for two weeks and had to resort to wearing my clothes?”

Derek clears his throat, face blank as he turns down off the main road into the denser streets. “I'm still essentially living out of a suitcase, it’s an easy thing to do.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to my hoodie that still smells like wet dog.”

“Crybaby.”

“Stinky.”

“Wow, I'm annoying _and_ stinky,” Derek laughs. “This must be so hard for you.”

Stiles gives a long suffering sigh, adopting a serious expression.

“We all have our cross to bear, Derek,” he says, pressing his hand onto Dereks’ knee and squeezing. “But... you give great, and I do mean _great_ head, so I'll take that cross and bear it hard. ”

Derek takes his eyes off the road for a moment to raise his eyebrows at Stiles just smiles innocently. When Derek looks back to the road, Stiles looks out the window at the moving scenery for something to do, waits for a reaction that never comes, only to feel the welcoming weight of Dereks' fingers linking with his.

Stiles quickly moves to turn the radio up loudly enough to hopefully cover the increased tempo of his pulse.

He snickers when he recognizes the song. “Back when Dad used to drive me to school he would roll down the window and blast ABBA just as we were pulling in. Everyone would turn and stare, it was mortifying,” Stiles remembers fondly. Even the memory of an embarrassed newly-pubescent Stiles made him feel nostalgic, a feather-light warmth floating above his sternum.

“Mamma Mia?”

Stiles snorts. “That too, but Super Trouper was his favorite.”

The corners of Derek's mouth quirk upwards. He moves to the right-most lane and uses their joint hands to turn on the indicator to park on the side street.

“My father used to sing Waterloo every morning while he got ready for work,” Derek says softly, putting the car into park as it comes to a stop. “It was his routine, he'd do the face movements and everything while he was making scrambled eggs.”

Stiles shoots the other man an amused grin, arching his thumb and gently rolling the pad into Derek's knuckle. “Sounds like he was uncool like my dad. But, y’know, looking back, total props for the playlist.”

“Used to make me cringe,” Derek huffs a low laugh. “I miss it now.”

He doesn't know why his heart skips a beat at the admission and neither of them move to unbuckle their seatbelts. “I downloaded the Greatest Hits album,” he tells Derek. “The play count is embarrassing. Dancing Queen is in like, triple digits.”

“Dancing Queen,” Derek says, smiling bashfully, “is on my workout playlist.”

Stiles snorts. “Have you seen Mamma Mia?”

“The one with Meryl Streep? I didn't hate it.” He studies Stiles for a moment, eyes raking down his face. He briefly smirks, pulling Stiles closer with their still linked hands and pressing a kiss into the corner of his mouth. Stiles wraps his free hand around the back of Derek’s neck and deepens the kiss.

“Wanna watch it when we get home later?” He asks breathless a few moments later.

“How could I ever refuse?”

 

\--

 

Despite the easy affection in the car they don’t arrive to the party hand-in-hand. Mostly because his own palms started sweating in a gross way and didn’t want to be that gross guy so he didn’t take up Dereks' hand again. Stiles doesn’t think about it. He also definitely doesn’t think of this as their first public united front as a not-couple.

Sure, they go out all the time to dinner or grocery shopping or runs around the block, but never to meet co-workers or classmates or whatever. This feels different. But he’s not thinking about it at all, no sir. Not at all.

Stiles follows a step behind Derek as they make their way into the large backyard of the pack house, watching him shake non-sweaty hands and embrace some of the members, or wave or nod at afar to the others. Their food and gift are accepted with an _oh how sweet you didn’t have to_ and placed on their respective tables.

There’s a lot of people. Sixty or more at least. There’s loud music and grills sizzling and children running around and yelling. Alpha Geri Townsend looks resplendent in a form-fitting black dress, hair up high, surrounded by friends and family. Her frown is softened by the company, it seems. Or by the prospect of getting fucktons of gifts, that could be it too.

After they’ve wished her a happy birthday and made their way out of the thick of the crowd they each take an offered cup of beer. Stiles doesn’t really know anyone here, recognizes the faces of a few people from the first and only time he’d met them but doesn’t remember any of their names.

He sets his drink down on the closest table and slips away inside to the bathroom while Derek is distracted by a short, elderly man asking him a question.

There aren’t many people indoors and luckily no-one in the bathroom when he goes in to use it. He washes his face and takes a few deep breaths, staring at himself in the mirror, telling his blotchy skin and sweat-beaded hairline that he’s got this, he can do this, that he really hopes he doesn’t have pit stains or get food caught in his teeth, but he can do this.

With a small measure of control he heads back out into the backyard and scans the area for Derek, spotting him speaking to a young man and a woman around Stiles age over by the fishpond. Getting to Derek involves pretending not to see strangers approaching him with food goods he doesn’t feel the appetite for and upon reaching the wolf he places a hand on the small of Derek's back.

Derek smiles at his return and grips his shoulder warmly, introduces the other two as Olivia and Byron respectively and tells Stiles they’re twins who also study at his University. He’s never seen them there but it’s also a massive campus and a ginormous student population, so that’s par for the course. They’re also both incredibly tall and attractive, Byron talking a mile a minute, Olivia solemn as stone, dirty blonde hair and large blue eyes. They don’t seem particularly impressed by Stiles or the way he unashamedly steals Derek's drink straight from his hand and quickly devours the remainder of it.

“Stiles starts his third year in a couple of weeks,” Derek says by way of introduction.

“That’s interesting. What are you studying?” Olivia asks, tucking her behind her ears as it gets gently swept in the wind. A nasty part of him wonders how she would be interacting with Derek if he wasn’t there, if Derek would find the glimpse of her delicate wrist enticing or the hint of collarbone under her jacket interesting.

“Criminology. Y’know, forensics, all that stuff,” he answers, taking his hand away from Derek's back to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, feeling warm despite the cool temperature. “Very boring, really. What about you?”

Byron immediately throws his head backwards and snores obnoxiously, stopping only when Olivia slaps his arm and tells him to shut up. “Second year history major,” she says almost quietly, speaking to her feet. “Well, the history of languages to be more precise, how they’ve changed over time and how we interpret them today and their application across cultures.”

“Wow,” Stiles mutters mostly to himself. “Sounds wild. Do you enjoy it?”

“I love it,” she smiles shyly. “I mean, I only know three languages so far but I’m motivated to continue learning.”

“Hah! Only three,” Stiles says, discomfort intensifying. He clears his throat and unbuttons the top of his shirt until he can breathe a little easier. “You and Derek sound like you have a lot in common.”

He ignores the weird look Derek sends him and looks to Byron who looks moments away from zoning out entirely. “What about you?”

Byron just looks around at all of them as if trying to find a common unifying thread. “I’m actually a drama major, but I, uh...watch a lot of CSI?”

 

\--

 

As originally intended, they don’t stay very long, disappearing shortly after the cake is cut and the presents are opened. Stiles branches off from Derek not long after the conversations with the twins. He calls his dad, and after that he calls Lydia in the living room. It’s a chicken-shit move but he doesn’t know how else to temper the hot sphere rolling caustically around his gut.

When they head home they do so in relative silence, the radio playing soft. There is none of the easy conversation from earlier. Derek seemed eager to leave and forgets to stop by the grocery store and Stiles deliberately doesn’t remind him to stop as they drive past it.

When they park out the front of the garage they sit for a minute, both staring out the windshield and neither of them saying anything or moving to unbuckle seat belts.

Stiles clears his throats and nods once, determinedly looking everywhere but at Derek beside him.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks. Stiles can tell even out of the corner of his eye how much he is refraining from commenting on the smell of anxiety that must be rolling off him. His palms still sweat, his mouth is dry as he nods and heads inside their apartment complex.

He feels a little sick, like he’s going to throw up the burger he just had for lunch, feels like trying to run off all the impotent energy under his skin at the same time he wants to do absolutely nothing. Once back inside the safety of their own space and the doors are locked behind them Stiles takes great relief in taking off his shoes and removing his dress shirt entirely.

He hears Derek set his keys down on the hall stand before he moves to stand behind him, placing his broad, warm hands over Stiles shoulders. His thumbs stroke his skin gently.

“You tired?” Derek asks. “Want to lie down for a bit?”

Stiles nods and not unlike last night undresses his way to Dereks’ room haphazardly. He prefers Derek's room over his own, it’s easy to feel like the apartment is mostly his, he chose it, he pays a little more in their still temporary living arrangement but Derek's room gives him the feeling of being invited somewhere sacred to the man. The personal touches are scarce and mostly incidental but with all of his boxes gone it’s more Derek's than his own. It’s nice.

Derek follows and undresses in the room, leaving on his briefs only like Stiles to join him under the covers.

Derek shifts until he flat on his back and instead of splaying himself over Derek like he normally would, he curls onto his side, resting his head on the dead centre of Derek's stomach, the pair of them making a disfigured T-shape. He curls into a fetal position, facing the headboard and Derek who already has his eyes closed and is carding fingers lazily through Stiles hair with one hand.

Stiles still feels rigid and raw still like he's been flayed and the worst thing is, is in the harm free, domestic version of himself, he has no reason to be acting like there is a threat anywhere. That, and a pervasive guilt nags at him. Derek, the world's nicest asshole, just babysat him for hours, tried to make him – Stiles – feel better for what must have felt like pulling teeth and Stiles hasn't even bothered to ask him how he is.

“Sorry,” he whispers into Derek's skin.

Derek keeps his hand in Stiles’ hair but uses his thumb to stroke against the skin of his forehead where it meets his hairline. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I didn’t want to be there either.”

“Yeah, but I bet it didn’t look incredibly professional to have to pander to your skittish, anxiety-reeking fuckbuddy at an important social event.”

Dereks hand stills. “Okay...there are a lot of things wrong in that sentence.”

“Like you being a professional?” Stiles tries to joke.

“Like you being an anxiety reeking fuckbuddy.”

“Okay so like, the whole sentence - “

“Stiles.”

Yeah, Stiles concedes, he's ready for the day to be over. He clamps his palms over his eyes and breathes. “Can we talk about this later?”

“We can - but will you?”

“Absolutely, one hundred percent,” Stiles confirms. “If you forget everything I just said and pretend we had a fabulous day out. Not a hitch. No weird nervous weirdos being weird.”

“You weren’t weird. What you don’t know is that a lot of the people there were anxious. Olivia was anxious too.”

“Of course she was,” Stiles scoffs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She was into you,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes to the headboard.

“So?”

“So she’s attractive, she likes the same things as you do, she’s smart, she’s into you…”

“And I’m into you,” Derek says sitting up and dislodging Stiles from where he was laying. Seems like this is going to a face-to-face discussion after all.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Into me. Like, really.”

“Yes - are you seriously asking me that?”

“Yes! I get that I’m attractive enough to you, but I’m also aware that I happen to be in a convenient location.”

Derek begins to look lost. “For what?”

“For sex!”

“ _What_?”

“I don’t know much about history and I’m never going to be a polyglot, Derek!” Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands up. “I failed high school Spanish! Do you know how hard it is to fail Spanish when you live in California? Your sexual attraction to me and my local penis is all I have.”

Derek rubs his hands over his face like he could rub away the regret of starting this conversation. “Have I seriously given you reason to think I'm that much of a dick, that you're just something extra in my living arrangement? Is that what you think of me?”

Stiles looks down at his hands, fidgeting, tapping fingers against each other. “Well - no.”

The easiest answer would be yes, Derek, you are that much of a dick – but that's not really the truth. Stiles just doesn't know how to say that he's still waiting for Derek to look at him and say _oh, that's all there is to you_. He's waiting for Derek to say you're not enough and you're too much at the same time, like a heavy handful of thin air. All style and no substance. He doesn't know how to lie his way around this bravado he's fabricated.

He doesn't want to say any of it.

“I wanted to ask after that first time,” he explains, feeling Derek watching him. “But I didn’t - I don’t know how long you’re staying. I didn’t want to ask about your thoughts on monogamous commitment when I didn’t think you were planning to stay.”

He can’t help but feel like he's doing it all wrong even now, like there isn't enough smoke and mirrors to stop Derek from looking any harder. He doesn't like this, feels uncomfortable in this vulnerable and open window of his patch-work persona. Student, class-clown, son, brother, friend, nogitsune, lover, comrade. Stiles guesses this is just what happens when you begin to let someone incredibly special into your heart or something. You hand them a microscope. Except Stiles is much more familiar with being the scientist, the behind the scenes man.

He's the answers-man, the pack appointed plan-man, the got-a-problem-I'll-solve-it-man and I'm fine but more importantly how are you, man?

Derek is silent for a minute, scratching thoughtfully over his own stubble. “So,” Derek begins slowly, “if I said I wanted to stay in here, in Washington?”

Stiles looks up, tries to read the carefully blank expression on Derek's face. “Why would you want to do that? How would you work?”

“I can work from anywhere, I mostly communicate with my clients online. And why, because it’s where you are.”

Stiles shakes his head dismissively, frowning. Asks with a hint of sarcasm as he thinks of the last few years,“Since when is that a deciding factor for your life choices?”

Derek tilts his head to the side that suggests that he thinks Stiles’ point is fair and shuffles his body forward across the bed, the sheets rustling beneath him as he comes to sit beside Stiles, their legs brushing the bedroom floor. A strong pair of arms wraps around his waist at the same time Derek bends his head to press his nose into the underside of Stiles’ jaw below his right ear, where he likes it most.

“Since the moment I came to Washington and saw you in the space you had carved out for yourself. Since I knew you were the one person I could look at, and know you almost always knew what I was thinking. Since you keep trying to take care of me by making me burnt toast in the morning.”

“It’s the crappy toaster - “

“It’s not the toaster, I make toast perfectly. Every time.”

“Well aren’t you an arrogant -”

Derek ignores him. “You don’t give up on me, you haven’t yet.”

“You’re impossible to get rid of.”

“You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have a relatively acceptable taste in music that I don’t immediately hate. I like you and I like spending time with you. I like going out and being seen with you. I like that thing you do where you make up your own dirty lyrics to a song when you think no one can hear you.”

“Okay that's enough, I get it. I have value to you outside of my proximity to your penis.”

“Are we on the same page?”

“Sure, I’m wearing your letterman jacket.”

Derek smiles into his neck. “And Stiles? One last thing.”

“Sure.”

“You also give great, and I mean _exceptional_ head.”

“Damn right I do.”


End file.
